


A December to remember

by Randomwordsonpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, And secretly likes christmas, Attending church, Buying christmas gifts, Christmas Cards, Christmas Fluff, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Fireplaces, Ice Skating, Idiots in Love, Injured John Watson, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, John likes christmas too, Loss of parent (mentioned), M/M, Mulled wine, Rating May Change, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson at Christmas, building a snowman, but that's not a secret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomwordsonpaper/pseuds/Randomwordsonpaper
Summary: 31 short stories about 31 December days with 31 prompts... Will our boys be able to tell those three magic words to each other by the end of the month?A December to remember has begun!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 34





	1. Advent calendar galore

**Author's Note:**

> So, me and my two writing friends Ughilovejohnlock and fireandhoney challenged each other to come up with 31 short stories about our two favourite boys, each based on a prompt. I decided to share mine with the world because we can't have enough Christmas stories!
> 
> Here is the result of it! Enjoy, and have a lovely December with lots of love and warmth!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: Advent Calendars

**Advent Calendars Galore**

The first December day started quietly. There weren’t any cases to work on, Sherlock had gotten himself busy with a new experiment, and John got a day off for the first time in ages, which he spent propped up on the couch with a good book and a cup of tea. It was a perfect, domestic afternoon. 

Or at least, it should have been, if Sherlock wasn’t one gigantic ball of frantic energy. 

John tried to focus on his book, but it was hard to ignore it. The detective kept glancing at his phone every five minutes; he even got up every now and then to look outside the window. It was like he was expecting something, and it was clear that there was something the detective was nervous about. 

When Sherlock got up for the fourth time, John couldn’t take it any longer. He opened his mouth to order Sherlock to sit down and stop fuzzing, but before he could do that, the doorbell rang. He got up to open the door, but he heard that Mrs. Hudson was already ahead of him. 

John raised his eyebrows questioningly when he saw a look of excitement on his friends face. “Sherlock? What is going on?”

Sherlock turned to him, and his mouth curled up in a smile. “You and Harry got an Advent Calendar from your mum every year. You adored them. When you got older, you bought one every year for yourself, your mum and your sister long after you went to live on your own. ” 

“How did you-" 

“But when your mum died, you stopped.” 

John blinked. “I did.” 

“Well, I decided to keep the tradition alive.”

The door of 221B opened, and three parcel deliverers entered with large stacks of boxes in their hands. “Where can I put them?” one of the deliverers asked, and Sherlock pointed at the kitchen table. In no time, the whole table was filled with boxes wrapped in colourful gift-wrapping paper. 

“How many are there?” John exclaimed as he got up and approached the kitchen. 

“24, obviously.” 

It took John a moment to realize what was going on, but when he did, he started laughing. “You know you normally open one door per day, right? Not one Advent Calendar per day?” 

Sherlock froze in place. “Oh… I thought..” he stammered, his tone uncharacteristically insecure. 

John suddenly felt his heart sang with affection for his friend. Sherlock had gone through all this trouble, just to make sure that John could have something he used to love so much. And of course, he had gone a little overboard while doing so, which was typically Sherlock, John thought. The fact that Sherlock didn’t know how Advent Calendars worked was not only slightly hilarious but simply adorable as well. But at the same time, John realized it also meant Sherlock never had the joy of opening one himself, which made his heart ache a little in his chest. He quickly decided to take action before Sherlock got the impression that he didn’t appreciate the gesture. 

“Don’t worry; I still love it. Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you,” John spoke softly and watched how Sherlock’s cheeks pinkened up a little at his words. He couldn’t let Sherlock being uncomfortable, so he reached out to grab the detectives’ arm and squeezed. At the touch of John’s hand on his arm, Sherlock looked up at him questioningly, and John couldn’t do anything else than to give his friend a warm smile. Sherlock relaxed a little, finally convinced that he hadn’t done something  _ a bit not good. _

After a second, John spoke again. “Do you want to help to open them?” 

Sherlock’s face lightened up. “I think I’d like that.” 

“Come on, which one should we open today?” John chuckled.

He watched how Sherlock picked one of the boxes, ripped off the paper and put the box in front of him to examine. John sat down next to him, and together, they opened the doors one by one, showing each other what was inside.

And without realizing it, the most significant December of their lives had begun. 


	2. A Christmas invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on the prompt: Christmas Cards

**A Christmas invitation**

It was a cold and drizzly Wednesday morning, and the weather had a negative effect on Sherlock’s mood. He had been irritated all morning and tried to argue with John about everything, but John hadn’t taken the bait. He was smart enough not to give in to one of Sherlock’s moods and had fled the apartment with the excuse they were out of milk, which annoyed Sherlock even more. He had flopped himself on the couch and lay down in his thinking pose with his hands tucked under his chin, and his eyes closed. 

He was about to enter his Mind Palace when he heard a “Yoohoo!” and a knock on the door. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and turned around, facing the wall in the hope that if he stayed still long enough, Mrs. Hudson would think he was asleep. But of course, the landlady knew better; she always did, so she entered the apartment anyway. 

“I brought you some scones, dear! Oh, look at this place. You really need to do some cleaning up before you can put out the Christmas decorations! I’ll drop by tomorrow to help you get the place ready, but just this once! I’m not your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson chatted while she put down a tray with baked goods on the kitchen table. “Oh, I brought your mail as well. Looks like you got your first Christmas card!” 

“What?” Sherlock spat, turning around, his eyes narrowed.

Mrs. Hudson held up a red envelope and waved it. “A Christmas card! It’s addressed to you.” 

Sherlock knew that envelope all too well. With bravado, he raised himself, swung his legs off the couch, walked towards Mrs. Hudson and snatched the envelope from her hands. “That’s not a Christmas card,” he hissed and walked towards the mantelpiece where he took the knife he used to pin bills with and stabbed the envelope with force. 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “I know you’re not the most festive person, but you could at least make an effort to open the envelope and read it! It’s not a very nice gesture to stab someone’s Christmas card!” 

“Again; it’s not a Christmas card!” Sherlock bellowed. 

Mrs. Hudson huffed and turned on her heels, clearly bemused by the detective’s behaviour. When she exited the apartment, she almost ran into John. “Good morning, Mrs. H,” John greeted her before noticing her irritated expression. “Is everything all right?” 

“Oh John,” Mrs. Hudson started in a high voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I just brought up some scones and handed Sherlock the mail, but when I told him he got a Christmas card, he just seized it out of my hands and stabbed it, without reading! I hope that young man finds his Christmas spirit; otherwise, it’s going to be a long December.”

John watched how she descended the stairs with raised eyebrows before he entered the apartment. He found Sherlock staring outside the window, his back towards the entrance. 

“Hey,” John greeted as he took his coat off. “Are you okay?” he tried, but he didn’t get a response from the man, so he continued. “I just ran into Mrs. H. She told me there was some kind of issue with a Christmas card? Care to tell me what happened?” 

John saw Sherlock tense, but still, he got no reaction. He decided to go with a different tactic. “Okay, if you don’t want to tell me, I’ll read it myself.” He walked to the mantlepiece and took the Christmas card. He was about to read it when Sherlock turned around. 

“Don’t.” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” John replied in a calm voice. 

Sherlock walked towards his chair, let himself fall into it and sighed in defeat. “It’s not a Christmas card; it’s an invitation.”

“For?” 

“The annual Christmas party at my parents.” 

John sat down in his own chair. “Okay, and what’s so bad about an invitation to your parents? It’s Christmas, Sherlock. They just want to see you.” 

“It’s not that,” Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Every year, my mother organizes a horrific Christmas party, where she invites the whole family. And every year there has been a big discussion on the fact that she believes it’s about time that Mycroft and I are starting to look for our significant other.” The detective scrunched up his nose at the last words. 

“I’m sure she means well?” John tried, but Sherlock just shot him a look.

“So a couple of years ago, Mycroft and I decided it would be best just to bring someone to the party and pretend we are in a relationship, so we don’t have to deal with her constant nagging.” 

“Can’t you just tell her you won’t be attending this year?” 

“No, Mycroft had tried that once; it didn’t work out the way he planned, and he ended up taking my parents to Shakespeare to make up for the fact he didn’t show up,” Sherlock answered with disgust in his voice. “No, My mother can be very persuasive if she wants to be. I’ll just have to find someone who can fill the role. Maybe someone on my homeless network could do it; they are always in need of some extra money.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. “Bit not good.”

“What, do you have a better solution, then?” 

For a second, John stared at the detective and waited to see if he came up with what he thought was the most obvious solution in the world. When he didn’t, John cleared his throat. “I could join you?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply. He just looked at John with big eyes and blinked, his mind suddenly completely blank. “I… What?” he stammered. 

John chuckled. “I could be your plus one at your parent’s Christmas party. If you want me to, that is.” 

“You know my parents will be there, right?” Sherlock asked with disbelief. 

“Yes.”

“And that Mycroft will be there as well?” 

“I’m aware, yes.”

“And you still volunteer to go?”

“I do.” John leaned a little forward in his chair, and Sherlock saw the edges of his mouth curl up in a small, playful smile. “Just promise me one thing?”

“Yes?” 

“That we won’t have to pretend that we are a couple,” John said with a wink, and Sherlock suddenly felt his heart skip a beat, trying to understand what John was implying. Usually, Sherlock would think that John meant they would attend the party as friends, but the wink indicated something else entirely. Could it be that John was actually… flirting with him?

“Okay,” Sherlock finally answered, his throat suddenly dry. 

“Good, that’s settled then.” John smiled and leaned backwards in his chair again, his body language confident. “Now, Do you want to order Thai for dinner tonight?” 

  
  



	3. An early-morning adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: Snowman

**An early-morning adventure  
  
**

It was very early when John jerked awake from a deep sleep. He groaned, fatigue still heavily noticeable in his body, and realized there was something that had woken him. Ever the soldier, he instantly became alert of his surroundings. He opened his eyes and was greeted by a lanky detective with a messy mop of curls hanging above him. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” 

“Ah, good! You’re awake!”

“You know not to creep up on me like that when I’m asleep! PTSD, remember?” 

Sherlock waved it away. “Get up, John!” The detective stretched himself and looked at John impatiently. 

“Why? Did Lestrade call? Is there a case?” John asked as he tried to suppress a yawn, his voice thick with sleep. He reached out to flick on the light on his bedside table. The amber light filled the room and John took a look at the man standing next to his bed. Sherlock stood there, perfectly dressed as always, in one of his suits. In fact, it was the same suit he had worn the day before. “Jesus, did you even sleep?”

The detective ignored the question altogether. “We have to get outside! Come on, no time to waste!” he urged. 

John didn’t miss the enthusiasm in Sherlock’s voice, but he was too busy with keeping himself awake to give it any notion. “And why would we have to do that?”

A broad smile appeared on Sherlock’s normally serious face. “Because it’s snowing!” 

John blinked for several seconds before his brain started to register the words. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Of course I am, John. Now get up, we need to get to Regent’s park!” 

“Sherlock,” John groaned and ran his hands across his face. “it’s almost five in the morning. I don’t need to get to Regent’s park; I need to sleep. Some of us have to work in four hours.” 

But Sherlock would have none of it. He reached out and pulled off John’s blanket. John protested furiously and tried to snatch the blanked out of his friends' hands, but Sherlock was quicker and took a step back. “Sleep is overrated; there’s coffee. Come on, John!” he practically yelled and walked away with John’s blanket dragging after him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John growled and pulled up his knees in an attempt to keep some of his warmth. For a moment, he considered his options. He could just ignore the detective and go back to sleep, but a small part of Sherlock's boyish enthusiasm was contagious, and he couldn’t help himself than to get a little excited as well. It hadn’t been snowing in years; he couldn’t even remember the last time it had. Plus, Sherlock had made fresh coffee, which was unique and showed how badly he wanted to go outside. So, John, that sleep was indeed overrated and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up.   
  


* * *

  
Half an hour later, John and Sherlock stood outside in the cold winter air. It was still relatively quiet as there was not much work traffic yet and only a handful of people were walking on the pavements, most of them walking their dogs. Snow was still falling from the sky, covering the typically grey London streets in a thick blanket of white. 

With two steaming mugs of coffee in their hands, they reached the entrance of Regent’s park. Once they were inside the park, John had to do his best to keep up with Sherlock’s pace. He didn’t comment on it and followed quietly. It was clear Sherlock got excited over something, and John couldn’t help it but smile at that. It wasn’t often that he got the chance to see Sherlock like this, so unguarded, carefree and almost child-like.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock suddenly stopped walking. He looked around, inspecting the place, and gave a stern nod. “This will do perfectly.”

John came to stand next to the man. “All right, Sherlock, time to fill me in. What are we doing here, exactly?” 

Sherlock’s mouth curled up in a playful smile. “As kids, Mycroft and I used to love snow. Every winter we waited for the first flakes to fall from the sky, and when there finally was enough snow, we couldn’t get outside fast enough. One of my favourite activities was to build a snowman,” he told John. He shrugged his shoulders, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I thought we could do the same.” 

For a moment, John just stared at his friend, not knowing how to respond. His first reaction was to laugh at the absurdity of the request, because who would think to go to Regent’s park at five-thirty in the morning to build a snowman? But the explanation Sherlock gave him was so sweet and endearing that John knew he couldn’t deny him, even if he wanted to.

“All right, let’s build us a snowman!” he replied eventually, and put on his gloves. The reaction Sherlock gave was priceless, and John knew he had made someone very, very happy. 

It took them about an hour to form three gigantic balls of snow. After they had placed them on top of each other, they started searching for some stuff they could use to decorate. Sherlock found some branches they could use as hands, and John had the brilliant idea of using holly berries to make the face and buttons with.

After another fifteen minutes of fine-tuning, they both stepped back to admire their work. 

“I think he’s done!” John exclaimed.

“Not quite.” 

The mischievous tone in Sherlock’s voice betrayed that he was about to do something. John watched how Sherlock walked up to the snowman, reached inside his coat and took something out of his pocket. Standing in front of the snowman, John couldn’t see what the detective was doing. After a few seconds, Sherlock stepped back with a grin. “Now he’s done.”

John looked at the snowman and burst out laughing. 

There, in the middle of Regent’s park, stood a snowman with a deerstalker hat on top of his head. 

  
  



	4. Cinnamon and Spices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on the prompt: Mulled wine/hot chocolate

**Cinnamon and Spices**

When he heard about the Christmas fair where most of the officers of New Scotland Yard volunteered every year a couple of weeks ago, John decided it would be a good idea to ask if they could use some extra help. He signed himself up and did the same for Sherlock. He still had a couple of weeks, which should be enough time to persuade the detective to join him. 

He had never been so wrong.

The first time John mentioned the Christmas fair, Sherlock completely ignored him. The second time, he pretended to be asleep, the third time he stoically continued to play his violin. John tried another six times, in friendly, and not so friendly ways. But John could have jumped high and low; Sherlock was ignoring him completely every time he asked. So after the ninth time, he gave up. 

John had thought about an excuse so he wouldn't have to go because he hated to go alone, but when he received an email with the schedule about who stood where, everything got a little better. He got assigned with Lestrade. 

"Hey, John!" Greg called and waved enthusiastically. "You made it!" 

John walked towards the small stand where the DI was standing and smiled. "Of course, I said I would come, didn't I? Besides, when I heard we got assigned together, I couldn't say know." 

"Yeah, I thought you wouldn't appreciate working with Anderson or Donovan, so I asked the organization to do me a favour. Come on; you won't be so cold if you get under here; the heater is on." Lestrade tilted up the table cloth so John could go underneath it. 

"Thanks. So, what do we have to do?" 

"Uh, it's pretty straightforward, actually. We sell mulled wine and hot chocolate." 

"That's it?" 

"Yep!" Lestrade grinned. "Why do you think I request this spot every year? It's way better than lifting the bought Christmas trees onto the cars or than trying to be funny at some other supposedly fun game. I'll show you where to find everything." 

Lestrade showed John where he had put the spare cups, where to find the ingredients they had to use if they run out of something and explained the paying system they used at the fair. After five minutes, they were done and ready for the first costumers of the night. 

"Oh, there's also another big plus on standing here!” Lestrade told John enthusiastically. 

John raised his eyebrows. "Which is?"

The inspector didn’t respond. Instead, he took two cups and poured the mulled wine. With a grin, he handed John one of the cups. 

"Here."

"What, are you serious?" 

Lestrade just shrugged in response. "Hey, a man has to stay warm, right? Besides, there's hardly any alcohol in it anyway." He raised his carton cup. "Cheers, mate." 

John blinked at the DI and hesitated, debating on whether or not he should follow Greg's example. Because even though they were volunteering, they still were at work. But he decided it couldn't do any harm, so he raised his cup as well and smiled at the inspector. "Cheers!"   
  


* * *

  
The mulled wine and hot chocolate stand turned out to be a popular choice of many visitors of the fair, which meant John and Lestrade were working non-stop from the moment the first people arrived. It didn’t matter, though, because they had a good time together, enjoying each other’s company, interacting with costumers, joking around and drinking some mulled wine when no one looked. One cup quickly became two. Two became three, and by the fourth cup of mulled wine, John started to feel a little warm and fuzzy. If it was the heat of the warm beverage or the alcohol, he couldn’t say, but Lestrade had been right. It was definitely welcome on this cold December evening. 

By the time they reached their fifth cup of wine, the event had turned a lot less busy, which indicated that it was leaning towards the end. Lestrade had managed to confiscate two chairs from God-knows-where and was sitting with his feet on top of the table. John sat opposite of him with his chair turned backwards and leaned with his elbows on the back the chair, listening to one of Greg’s stories. 

“Then, while the man hangs upside down, Sherlock just took the man’s wallet from his back pocket, turned it inside out and took out the hotel key like it was nothing! I swear, I’ve never seen him look so smug before!” 

John laughed while he tried to ignore the rush of warmth he felt when Lestrade mentioned his flatmate's name. He decided he had enough of the mulled wine for tonight. 

Greg looked at John for a long moment; his gaze suddenly curious and intense. John stopped laughing and looked at the man, quizzically. “What’s wrong?” 

“John,” Lestrade started, his voice suddenly taking a serious tone. “I’m going to ask a question, and I’m going to be very blunt about it, so please, don’t take it the wrong way. But I’ve meant to ask you for a while now.” 

“Okay?” 

“What’s the deal with you and Sherlock?” 

John blinked. “What do you mean? We’re friends,” he answered, a little too quickly. 

“Oh, come on, John. That’s a load of crap, and you know it! Every time I mention his name, you get this smile on your face! I never seen you act like this, not until recently. Don’t get me wrong; it’s freakin' adorable!” Lestrade teased. 

“I… That’s not…” John could feel the blush creeping upon his cheeks. He tried to think of a reason, an excuse, anything, but the mulled wine made his brain all foggy. 

Lestrade’s grin broadened. “Come on, just admit it!” 

John decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut since he didn’t trust himself to speak. Because if he was frank with himself, the inspector was right. Usually, he was able to deny everything with a straight face, but he knew that alcohol always made him a little loose-lipped. 

Lestrade tried a different tactic. “All right, let me ask you this. have you ever considered what it would be like if you and Sherlock would be more than friends?”

“No.” 

“Don’t lie, John. I may have had a little too much mulled wine, but I still work for the police. Plus, you are terrible at it.” 

“Hey! That’s not fair! I had a little too much wine, too,” John exclaimed, trying to avoid the question. If it worked for Sherlock, it might work for him as well.

But Lestrade was having none of it. “Well, have you?” 

“I might.”

“And?” Greg urged. 

John looked up at the inspector. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer and that Lestrade would find out anyway. “Let’s just say I’m not appalled by the idea.” 

Lestrade’s good-humoured expression faded. He swung his legs from the table and leant forward with his elbows on his knees. “Hold on, what are you saying here, John?”

John didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he was trying to say. All he knew was that he had experienced this faint fluttering sensation when he was around Sherlock the last couple of weeks. And that he was starting to feel this strange kind of affection for the man. And that he thought about him, a lot. In more appropriate, and less appropriate ways. And that he… Oh.

_ Shit _ . 

“Are you telling me you’re starting to have feelings for him? Romantically?” 

John swallowed. “Maybe I am.” 

After what felt like minutes, Lestrade replied. 

“Holy shit.”

  
  



	5. Happy Socks and Chanel no. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, 1 day too late.. But here it is! Based on the prompt: buying Christmas gifts!

**Happy Socks and Chanel no. 5**

Sherlock glared at the man who sat in the chair opposite him. He didn’t know what annoyed him more; the fact that he had entered the apartment without knocking like he always did, that he was sitting in John’s chair and acted as he belonged there, or that it was merely just his face irked him. The fact that he was going to attend the annual Christmas party at their parents was already bad enough as it was, but now Mycroft came over and was insisting on discussing presents as well. 

“A Kashmir scarf?” The older Holmes brother suggested. He was trying to keep his tone light and casual for once, so they wouldn't end up arguing like they always did, but Sherlock was making it very hard for him not to fall into old habits. 

“She has plenty.” 

“Maybe the new cookbook from Donna Hay? Mummy adores her.” 

Sherlock groaned. “That’ll only give her more excuses to invite us over for dinner.” 

“An Ipad?” 

“No.” 

“Scented candles?”

“Ew, no.” 

“A new coffee machine?” 

“Hmm,” hummed Sherlock, who seemed to consider this gift seriously for the first time. But after a moment, he shook his head. “No. Besides, they prefer the cafetière, anyway.”

Mycroft let out a frustrated sigh, fighting the urge to comment. He pondered on what more gifts he could suggest for their parents for a second. “You know, I think Daddy would love to get the newest biography about George Washington.” 

“Who?” 

“George Washington, Sherlock. One of the former presidents of the United States? Don’t tell me you know who Donna Hay is, but that you fail to know one of the most significant rulers in American history.” 

Sherlock just shrugged in answer. “Mrs. Hudson uses Donna Hay’s recipes to bake. Does Greg Washington know how to bake Christmas cookies?” he replied. 

“It’s Geo- Never mind,” Mycroft huffed. “What about tickets for a play?” 

“And possibly get forced to join them?” Sherlock looked at his brother in disbelief, horror written all over his face. “Is your brain deteriorating so fast that you forgot about the last time you were obligated to go with them? I thought you were smarter than that, brother mine.” 

That was the final straw for Mycroft. He had tried to discuss this as any other would, but it seemed that his little brother didn’t feel the need to behave like an actual adult. He raised his hands in defeat and leaned back in the chair. “You come up with something if you are so determined to take down every suggestion I make!” he said, his voice raised, frustration clearly audible in his voice. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to be impressed by his brother's outburst. He simply sat up a bit, reached out for his cup of tea and took a sip, clearly knowing that that would annoy Mycroft even more. “Dad wants Happy socks and Mother wants Chanel no. 5, like every year. And for everyone’s sake, stop trying to overachieve and just give them what they want, Mycroft. You are giving me a headache.” 

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Mycroft closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to recollect himself. “Fine. It’s your turn to get the gifts, no excuses.” 

“Fine.” 

Both brothers glared at each other for a moment, before deciding the discussion had come to an end. Mycroft relaxed slightly and took his cup of tea in hand. They sat opposite each other for several minutes, just sipping tea in silence, before one of them spoke again.

“So, who did you bribe this year to join you at the Christmas party?” Mycroft asked, changing the subject. “Don’t tell me that it’s someone on your homeless network again; you know what happened last time. Mummy was displeased when she noticed her diamond earrings being gone.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. Even though he hated to admit it to Mycroft, he knew last year he didn’t make the best choice on who to bring as his fake date. But that wasn’t the reason for him to stay silent. He suddenly remembered John offering him to join him instead, but he suddenly was overwhelmed by doubt. John did seem clear about going with him, but they haven’t discussed it any further. What if John had made up his mind and decided he didn’t want to go after all? Or worse, what if they did go, and didn’t like his parents, or his family? And what did he even mean with “promise me that we won’t have to pretend that we are a couple”?

“I hope you’re considering not to go, brother mine.” 

The warning tone in Mycroft’s tone made Sherlock snap out of his thoughts. “Of course not, I know not to make that mistake, thanks to you. I assume you are bringing Anthea again.” 

“Don’t change the subject, Sherlock. We aren’t talking about me. You at least have to tell me the man’s name; otherwise, mummy will get suspicious. Besides, I think it would be best to check his credentials this year.” 

“That won’t be necessary.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at that. “Sherlock,” he warned. “I’m already letting you pick someone by yourself instead of finding someone for you. Don’t make me regret my decision.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Or else?” he threatened. 

With his nose in the air, Mycroft raised himself to full height, and Sherlock knew he had gone too far. “Or else, I will tell mummy. I am willing to take the adverse consequences that will come with it if it means you won’t be another thief in our parent’s house.” 

For a second, Sherlock weighed his options, but he could deduce that it wasn’t an empty threat that his brother was making. “It won’t be necessary because I’m certain you already checked his credentials. And did a background check. Of him and his family.” 

This information caught Mycroft off guard for a second before he realized who his brother was referring to. “How did you manage that?” he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I didn’t. He offered,” Sherlock answered. Unable to look his brother directly in the eye, he fixed his gaze on the cup in his hands. He knew Mycroft would deduce what was actually going on in seconds. 

“Oh, little brother,” was all Mycroft said eventually. His tone was soft and caring, something Sherlock hadn’t heard in ages. 

“I… I’m well aware that this is inconvenient, and that John probably doesn't even think about me that way, but I can’t seem to shake it. Believe me, I tried.” Sherlock explained to his brother, his voice uncharacteristically insecure. Sherlock knew how his brother thought about sentiment, and admitting to Mycroft that he might have developed feelings for his flatmate, felt like he was betraying him. The fact that Mycroft didn’t respond for a very long time only made him more certain his brother disapproved. 

But when Mycroft did speak, his tone wasn’t the harsh, cold one that Sherlock expected. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, brother mine,” he simply suggested before he got up from his chair, took his umbrella in his hand and walked out of 221B, leaving a confused Sherlock behind. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this! I love to hear what you guys think, so don't be shy to leave a comment! They are making me so happy! <3


	6. The ice-skating incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: ice-skating

**The ice-skating incident**

“Yes, I understand. We’ll be on our way.” 

It was a quiet Sunday morning, and Sherlock and John were reading the newspaper and eating breakfast - well, John was, Sherlock was just drinking coffee-, when Sherlock’s phone rang. John watched how Sherlock’s face grew serious while he was listening, and he could already guess who was on the other side of the line. “Case?” John asked once Sherlock had hung up. 

“Yes, they finally managed to track down Stephen Roberts.”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The flip-flop forger?” 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered impatiently, rolling his eyes at the name John used for their suspect. “I told you that nickname was ridiculous.” 

“Yeah well, people loved that story. But how did they manage to do that? I thought he was only in London during the summer.” 

“Apparently not. They spotted him at Hyde Park. Come on, John; the game is on!” Sherlock urged, unable to hide his excitement any longer. He jumped up from his seat and hurried to his bedroom to change out of his pyjamas and into his suit. John watched him leave and couldn’t suppress his smile. He always liked to see Sherlock getting excited over a case; his youthful, boyish enthusiasm shimmering through the serious, composed facade he tried to maintain. 

John got one last bite of his toast and one last sip of his coffee before he got up to follow Sherlock’s example. He went to his room, quickly changed into jeans and a jumper. Within five minutes, he managed to be ready and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock waiting at the bottom of the stairs, already with his Belstaff coat around his body and his blue scarf around his neck. John barely got the chance to put on his own leather jacket before Sherlock hurried out of the apartment and rushed down the stairs, clearly eager to get going. 

It was an icy morning, but luckily, they didn’t have to wait for a cab since Sherlock managed to hail one on his first attempt, something John was very grateful for. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address and took out his phone, his thumbs rushing across the keys, already in full-on focus mode. John let him and turned himself towards the window to watch the buildings pass by. 

After a fifteen-minute cab ride, they arrived at the entrances of Hyde Park and were greeted by Lestrade. “Good, you’re here,” he greeted. The inspector started walking and came down to business immediately. “We’ve been keeping an eye out for him since he disappeared on us this August. He had been off the radar ever since, but suddenly we receive an anonymous call that he’s been seen here in Hyde Park. My people were on it immediately; the story checks out. We managed to locate him and are following him as we speak, but since you, two were so involved in this case, I thought it would be wise to contact you as well.” 

“Why are there so many people?” John asked while he looked around him, trying to keep up with the inspector and the detective.

“It’s Winter Wonderland.” 

That explained why the park was crowded with visitors. It also meant that it would be a lot harder to arrest the man; Winter Wonderland was one of the biggest and busiest Christmas-themed events of London. 

After a couple of minutes, Lestrade stopped abruptly. “This is the place where he was last seen.”

Another officer came standing next to Lestrade, but Sherlock ignored his presence completely. “He’s at the ice rink?” he urged. 

“Yeah, he’s skating with his family. We should be able to arrest him if we get up there as well.” 

“Excellent,” the detective nodded, and John could see a plan forming in his head. “I assume you have officers surrounding the rink?” 

“Of course.” 

“Good. You,” Sherlock pointed at an officer next to Lestrade. “Get us some skates. John’s a size 9; I’m a 10.” 

A rush of sudden panic surprised John. “Uhm, Sherlock?” he tried hesitantly, but of course, Sherlock wasn’t listening.

“We can close him in if we manage to locate him on the ice. You should be at the exit, Lestrade.” 

“Sherlock, I-” John tried again, but Lestrade interrupted him this time.

“You don’t think he knows who you two are?” 

“It’s much less likely that he recognizes us since he never saw us during the investigation last summer. John and I will try to find him and-”

“Sherlock!” 

“What, John?!” Sherlock yelled, clearly frustrated over the fact that John was interrupting him. 

“I can’t skate.” 

Sherlock looked at John in disbelief, completely frozen in place for a second. He blinked a couple of times before he spoke again. “Of course you can.” 

“No, I can’t; I never learned how.” John simply answered, his voice calm, hoping that Sherlock would get that it meant he had to change his plan. But somehow, he doubted that would happen.”

“Nonsense. Skating is just like roller skating; everyone gets it eventually. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Besides, I need you on the ice with me, John!” 

John opened his mouth to argue that it would be dangerous to go on the ice without experience, but Sherlock was already walking towards the ice ring before John got the chance. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, John knew he didn’t make the wisest decision, but he followed Sherlock anyway. Maybe the detective was right; he managed to move around on roller skates quite well, perhaps it would be okay.   
  


* * *

After a couple of rounds, John got the hang of it and had to admit that Sherlock was right; it did feel similar to roller skating. He looked around to see if he could find Sherlock. When he finally tracked down the detective, he was surprised by the view; Sherlock was skating incredibly well. He was fast, sliding graciously over the ice and able to avoid other skaters without any extra effort. 

When he saw John, Sherlock gave him a small smile and John couldn’t do anything else but to smile in return. Then, Sherlock’s face grew serious again and gave John a firm nod that told him that they had to focus on the case; now was not the time to have fun. 

John skated away from Sherlock in the opposite direction. He tried to act casual and looked around him, hoping to catch a glance of the suspect. After a couple of minutes, John’s eye caught a familiar face. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Sherlock also had him in his vision, but John was much closer. He braced himself, pushed himself off and accelerated on his skates, his focus entirely on the suspect in front of him. He was almost able to grab him when suddenly he heard someone yell “watch out,” but it was already too late. 

John fell and hit the ice hard; a sharp pain surged through his arm like a thousand knives. 

“Fuck!”

“John!” Sherlock immediately rushed towards his friend. “John, are you alright?” he asked worriedly and kneeled next to John. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” John urged and looked around. The suspect clearly knew that something was going on as John saw him skating towards the exit, trying to escape. “Go after him, Sherlock! Don’t let him get away!’ 

But Sherlock didn’t move. “Don’t worry, Lestrade will stop him.” 

John was still focused on finding the suspect and making sure Lestrade would indeed stop him when Sherlock put his gloved hand on John’s knee. He turned his head so sudden at the touch that it made him wince in pain. 

“Tell me what hurts.” 

Looking at the detective’s concerned expression, John decided to give in in defeat. “It’s my shoulder,” he mumbled and saw Sherlock’s expression change from worry to fear. 

“Shit.” 

“I’ll be okay,” John said as calmly as he could, trying to comfort his friend a bit.” I don’t think it’s broken. Probably dislocated though.” He tried to move his shoulder a bit, but a sharp pain stopped him. “Yeah, definitely dislocated,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his face a painful grimace. 

Sherlock swallowed. “Can you manage to get up?” 

“I think so.” 

John rolled over, keeping his injured arm as near to his body as he could while he pushed himself up with the other. The skates made it challenging to get up, but he managed to get on his knees. Sherlock reached out to help John. “Let me help you.” The detective grabbed John by his arm to support him, and together they managed to get John standing. 

Slowly, they succeeded in skating off the ice, Sherlock’s hand never leaving John’s arm as he tried to protect his friend from people who accidentally would bump into him. When they got to the exit, they saw that the suspect was being cuffed and John felt a rush of relief through his body. Lestrade was waiting for them. 

“Jesus John, are you alright? That was quite a fall you made.” 

“Dislocated my shoulder, but I’ll be fine.” 

“Shit, mate, that must hurt like hell,” Lestrade sighed in sympathy. Without saying a word, Lestrade looked at Sherlock and reached for his scarf. Sherlock didn’t move and let the DI take it without an argument, something that John struck as odd. “Sit down for a bit,” Greg told John. When he did, Lestrade came standing behind him and wrapped the blue scarf as a sling around his arm. It instantly gave a little bit of relief, and John was finally able to let his arm go. 

“That must feel a bit better,” the DI said with a sympathetic smile. “Wait here; I’ll ask someone to escort you to A&E.” 

When Lestrade walked away, John turned his head towards Sherlock. He still wore his concerned, frightened look on his face. “Sherlock, are you okay? You look a bit pale.” 

“I’m fine,” the detective mumbled. 

“No, you’re not. Come sit down for a sec.” 

“I’m fine, John.” 

“Sherlock, sit. I can’t pick you up from the ground with one hand,” John joked, trying to lighten the situation a bit, but Sherlock’s frown just deepened. He did sit down next to John, and John could feel the tension radiating from Sherlock’s body. 

“Sherlock, I’ll be fine. We just got to go down to A&E to pop my shoulder back in.” 

Sherlock didn’t seem convinced. “But it’s your shoulder, John,” he mumbled. “Your bad shoulder. What if-” 

“Hey, don’t do that.” John reached out with his uninjured arm and took SHerlock’s hand in his. “You don’t need to worry like that. I’m a doctor, remember? I know a dislocated shoulder when I see one.” 

For a couple of seconds, Sherlock didn’t respond. John could see he was fighting to keep his emotions under control and gave him a moment to recollect himself. When Sherlock did speak, his voice was soft and hesitant. “Are you sure?” 

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, reassuringly. “I am.” 

Letting out a shaky breath, Sherlock finally seemed convinced. He looked up at John and gave him a hint of a smile. “You know, I should be comforting you.” 

John chuckled. “Don’t worry. If you offer that I can hold your hand when they pop my shoulder back in, we’re even.” 

“Deal.” 

  
  



	7. You deserve to be remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: attending Chruch/mass

**You deserve to be remembered**

He looked up at the grand, stately, white building with its stained windows and its massive wooden door. He hadn’t been in a church in a very long time. He used to, though, when he was younger. His parents went to every other mass the church provided, but they hadn’t forced their religion upon their children, allowing them to find out what they believed in on their own. He had joined them a fair amount of times, but when he got older, he came to the conclusion that he valued the ceremonial part, but that he didn’t know if he could honestly believe, and his parents had accepted that. The only mass he attended every year was the mass together as a family was the one on Christmas eve, up until he signed himself up for the army. 

But that had changed when his mother passed away. 

When he entered the church, he was momentarily taken aback. Not because of the immense building itself, but because of the calm and serenity that overtook him. He instantly knew he had made the right choice to come here, even after all those years. The main hall greeted him as a friend. There were only a few people in the building as well; some of them were walking around, some of them were sitting and studying the statues and stained windows, and some of them were praying. He found a spot on one of the benches in the back, sat down as well, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

He had known this day would come. Of course, he did. The fifth death anniversary of his mother wasn’t something that he could simply forget. He had managed to keep his mind occupied during the day; he’d been insisting on coming into work today, even though his shoulder still hurt, but it had provided the distraction he needed. When he was done with work, he had walked around the city for an hour before deciding to come down to the church where he had said his final goodbye to his mother. 

He swallowed as he tried to keep his emotions under control as he thought about the days around the funeral five years prior. He was on his mission in Afghanistan when he received the news from Harry that their mother suddenly had passed away. In a haze, he had arranged his leave and was back in London two days after he received the news, just in time to organise the last things for the funeral. Harry had been heartbroken, and John had been so grateful that he was able to be there and offer her support since she was the one who had taken care of their mom while he was away. They arranged a small, sober mass in the same church where he was sitting now and had buried her body afterwards in private. 

Their father didn’t attend.

After the funeral, John only had one day left before he had to go back to Afghanistan. Even though their relationship wasn’t that good, leaving his sister behind that day was the hardest thing he had ever done, because deep down, he knew that something would go horribly wrong. When he was back in London years later and met Harry at noon in a small café, completely and utterly drunk, his fears were confirmed. 

Maybe he should try and reconcile with Harry. He knew his mother would want that. She wouldn’t have wanted her two children to be estranged from each other. John swallowed as a sudden rush of emotions ran through him. His mother would’ve wanted a lot of things for him, he knew that, but he also knew that he had lived up to very few of them. He wasn’t the man his mother would want him to be, and he knew that. The war and his injury had made him impassive, cold, detached, and he was no longer the young man who his mother used to love, and he hated himself for it. 

But maybe, just maybe… that was starting to change. When he just got back from Afghanistan, his life had seemed hopeless, but that was before he had met Sherlock. Sherlock, with his sharp tongue, his ruthless honesty and his brilliant deductions. His mother would’ve loved him.

A small hint of a smile appeared on John’s face by the thought of it. 

He briefly wondered if his mother would approve, but deep down, John knew she would want what’s best for her little boy, just like she had wanted for Harry when she had told that she was a lesbian. His dad wouldn’t, though, that he had seen too. But John was almost sure that his mother would not only accept it but that she would be happy for him too. And that was something he was very grateful for. 

With a sigh, John opened his eyes. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, but he knew it was time for him to go. He got up and silently walked the entryway of the church, stopping in front of the altar. Several little candles were burning already. 

John took a match from the small box that stood there and lit it with one of the candles that were already burning. He reached out, held the match against one of the unlit candles in the back of the altar. Staring at the small flames, he allowed himself to feel the heartache and the loss. But only for a moment, because his mother had thought him differently. She had thought him to be strong, to be brave, and not to let his emotions get the upper hand.

“I love you, mom,” he whispered, before he braced himself, straightened himself into military pose and saluted her. Then, he turned on his heels and walked out of the church, determined not to give in to the lingering feeling of grief that tucked at him. 

But when he stepped out of the church though, John was greeted by a familiar figure at the bottom of the stairs, and suddenly, it all became too much. His eyes were prickling with tears and a lump formed in his throat by the sight of Sherlock standing there, waiting for him. He didn’t ask how Sherlock had known or how he had found him; he didn’t care. 

He was just grateful that he was there. 

John walked down the stairs, and simultaneously, Sherlock opened his arms, allowing John to walk straight into them, taking him into an embrace when he did. Sherlock tried to avoid John’s injured shoulder at first, but when John let himself fall against the detective, he wrapped his arms around him firmly.

“Five years already,” John mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of the Belstaff coat. 

“I know.” 

Fighting not to break out in tears, John tried to swallow against the hoarseness in his throat. “It still feels like yesterday.” 

There was a silence, and John could feel Sherlock swallow. “I know,” the detective whispered, and that was it. The tears that had threatened to spill all along finally fell from John’s eyes, and he couldn’t hold in check himself anymore. He felt Sherlock’s grip tighten even more around his shaking shoulders and for once, didn’t fight it. Instead, he let himself melt against Sherlock’s chest and let the tears fall. 


	8. Nightly Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: fireplace

**Midnight Musings**

It was completely dark in 221B baker street, except for the fire that was burning inside the hearth. The soft glow made the room colour orange and filled it with warmth. Even though it was late, there still was one person wide awake. 

Sherlock sat on the couch with his legs propped up against his chest. In one hand, a glass of fine whiskey was dangling dangerously. He usually didn’t drink, but tonight, he made an exception. Because tonight, his mind seemed to be stuck in the past, bringing up memories he had tried to forget so many times before, but couldn’t.

He had debated on whether or not to wake John, but he knew the doctor had to get up early in the morning, and he already had some rough days behind him. Besides, this wasn’t a danger night, not really. It just shouldn’t bother him so much, and yet, it did. He didn’t know why he was having such difficulty with this one. He had seen many overdoses before; there was absolutely no reason why this one made him feel the way he did. 

There had been a case, barely a six. But Sherlock had accepted it because he was bored and because John needed some distraction. So they had visited the crime scene, which turned out to be a drugs den. Lestrade and his team had cleared the building, but the remnants of frequent drug use were clearly visible in the room. There were several needles, tourniquets, pills and sachets with various sorts of drugs lying on the floor. 

The victim lay on one of the filthy couches, and when Sherlock saw him, he knew this would affect him. It wasn’t because the man looked like him, or that that it was a cocaine addict just like Sherlock has been. It was because the man, in his neat, grey suit and with his well-cut hair, didn’t belong there. He belonged in university, well on his way to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist. He wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Just like Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have been there, not so many years ago. 

He took another sip of his whiskey and welcomed the burning sensation deep in his throat, his gaze fixed on the fire in front of him. He was still here, although It could’ve ended entirely different on many occasions. It wasn’t something he was grateful for. It was what it was. He had survived, the man hadn’t. 

John had told him one night that meeting Sherlock had kept him alive. But the truth was that that was also the case the other way around. Of course, Lestrade had helped him get back on his feet, and even though he hated to admit it, Mycroft had supported him as well. But it was meeting John that made a difference, that made him want to live again. 

And, Sherlock thought, that was the difference between the victim and him. The victim didn’t have, a friend - a John - to fall back on, to let him help, to guide him through the darkest days. 

He took one final sip of whiskey before he put his glass on the floor and shifted so he could lay down on the couch. With his face towards the burning fireplace, he watched the flames dancing. He felt how his eyelids grew a little heavier. His mind finally seemed to stop buzzing and found some comfort in the thought that when he needed it, and he knew that time would come eventually, John would be there. No matter if and how their relationship would develop, John would be there. 

With that final thought, Sherlock slowly fell in a deep, dreamless sleep.   
  


* * *

  
When John came down the stairs the next morning to get to work, it was still very early. He was greeted by the warmth of the fire that still was burning softly, making the living room grow amber. Surprised that the fireplace was still lit, he looked around.

He found Sherlock laying on the couch, his knees tugged against his chest, one arm holding his pillow. His face was turned to the fire, and his mouth hanging slightly open, and John was utterly amazed by the relaxed expression on Sherlock’s face. The glow of the fire reflected on Sherlock’s skin, making him look years younger and absolutely gorgeous. Still tired perhaps, but gorgeous all the same. 

Of course, John had known that Sherlock was struggling the previous night. As soon as they entered the crime scene, John had kept an eye on the detective to make sure that nothing would trigger a danger night. But when that didn’t seem the case, John decided it would be best to let Sherlock decide whether or not he needed John. 

When they came home, he had let do Sherlock his own thing, even though the struggle was clearly visible. John brought him tea, made sure there was something to eat in case the detective got hungry and had made a fire to keep him warm. When there was nothing else he could do, he had wished Sherlock goodnight and went to bed, in hope the detective would get some sleep as well eventually. 

John quietly walked up to the couch and took the duvet that lay on the armrest. Trying not to wake Sherlock, he tugged the ends between the sofa cushions and carefully draped the duvet over his body. He let his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment and let him take in the scene in front of him. 

Just when he was about to walk away, John felt Sherlock stir a little under his touch. 

“John?” the detective mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

John crouched down next to the couch, his hand never leaving Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sssh, go back to sleep,” he whispered softly. 

“What time is it?” 

“It’s still early. Just close your eyes for a little longer.” 

Sherlock twisted a little and searched for a new comfortable position. He pressed his face in the pillow a little deeper and tugged up his knees, even more, making himself as small as possible. “Can you stay? For a little while?” 

Sherlock’s question was barely audible, but John heard it loud and clear. He swallowed, the fragility of Sherlock’s voice suddenly overwhelmed him. “Of course,” John answered, his voice hoarse. “Scoot over a little.” 

Sherlock pressed his back a little more against the cushions, making room for John to sit against his upper legs. John hesitated briefly, but he couldn’t deny Sherlock’s request. If Sherlock needed him to stay, he was more than welcome to oblige some comfort. He sat down and felt the heat of Sherlock’s legs and stomach radiating against his clothes. For a minute, John let his finger stroke Sherlock’s shoulder in soothing little circles and felt how Sherlock’s body relaxed again under his touch. “Sleep,” he hushed. 

Hesitantly, John reached out and softly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. When the detective let out a content sigh and relaxed even more, John slowly started to stroke his hair. He stayed like this for a while and watched how Sherlock drifted off again with a small smile on his face, and suddenly, he was very reluctant to go to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I'm one day behind. Some stuff happened yesterday, and my mind was occupied. I promise I'll make it up to you somewhere along the way by posting two chapters at once! <3


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